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Wednesday, May 7, 2014

I am going to begin this talk about
the sari and its relationship with individual, regional, and national identity,
with some personal reminiscences. The first, concerns an intricate purple, pink
and gold Benarasi silk sari that was bought for the wedding of my
grandmother-in-law, in the early decades of the 20th century, almost
a hundred years ago. I was introduced to this beautiful heirloom, just before
my wedding reception. New to Bengali customs and completely unused to wearing
saris, I was asked to drape this on. I did so, with a great deal of
trepidation, and the fervent hope that both the sari and I would emerge
unscathed from the experience. Fortunately, we did.

Some of my mother’s saris, including
the red Benarasi silk worked in silver thread that she chose as part of the
wedding gifts my father’s family bought for her, have also come down to me. My
mother spent her girlhood in and around the Garhwal Himalayas, much removed in
space and time from the Kanpur of my grandmother-in-law’s childhood. Many of
the Benarasis that formed part of my mother’s wedding trousseau, despite
frequently jostling across army cantonments in iron trunks, cheek-by-jowl with
my father’s treasured whisky bottles, still retain their lustre and delicacy.
Though it is only infrequently that I wear saris, I took the red Benarasi out
recently to wear at a wedding.

The
Sari as representative of a Regional and National Culture

What has all this got to do with
design, or identity? First, that in
my subjective opinion, the design of the sari ensures that it is flattering to most
women in the sub-continent. So, it was the overwhelming mode of dress for
Indian women, whether a Bengali brought up in North India, or a Pahari
travelling all over the country. Secondly,
the fact that the sari, even with its dwindling popularity, is an identifiable
symbol of India. This is why, so many of us, who may not wear saris on a
regular basis, still fish them out on formal, celebratory occasions. Or why,
professions or people who are involved with presenting India to the outside
world, also often opt for the sari as a formal mode of wear. Thirdly, that different regions in
India have different and recognisable patterns, weaves and motifs and even ways
of tying the sari. The Benarasi, the Chanderi, the Sambalpuri, the Dhakai, the
Kanjeevaram, the Paithani—saris from different parts of India, carry the names
and ethos of their cities or regions with them, and conjure up specific
variations on the theme. And though associated indelibly with these regions,
famous regional ‘types’ of saris are cherished possessions all over
India—wherever it is the preferred mode of garment. Even in the mountains of
Kumaon, where the flared skirt or the lehnga
is more practical and also the traditional choice for wedding apparel, the
Benarasi sari is still a significant part of special wear for many women.

A Shared Indian Lexicon

In fact, attributes of saris from
different areas inspire and inform a shared Indian lexicon, of forms as much as
words. Some months ago, I was reading out an article on the tailor-bird to our
ten year old daughter. The writer, an ornithologist, had written it in Marathi,
from which it had been translated into Hindi for the Children’s Science
Magazine, Chakmak. The article
contained a description about the appearance of the tailor bird, which in
English would read like this: ‘its orange eyes, rusty head, set off by its
green jacket – soft as Chanderi silk.’[1]
Both my daughter and I could immediately envision its appearance, especially
since I happen to own a dupatta in green Chanderi. That the delicate Chanderi
sari, named after the town in Central India where it is still woven, can be
used as such an effective image to evoke the texture of the feathers of a bird,
reflects the penetration of different sari types into our very vocabulary and
imagination, from that of a writer and naturalist from the Ghats of Western
India in this case, to a reader in a metropolis in North India.

The sari then, is as much representative of a regional as it is of a
national culture.
This is not to disregard the fact that the sari is not worn all over India, even traditionally. The lehngas of
Rajasthan, Kumaon and Kutch and the woven shifts of the Nagas are just some
spectacular exceptions. Neither is the sari worn in the same way over different
regions of India. As Rta Kapur Chisti, who has researched and written
extensively on the saris of India, also demonstrates, some of the many ways in
which the sari is worn, includes a form of draping and pleating which makes it
function and appear like a lehnga![2]
Thus, the same sari looks different on each person; transforming itself both by
taking on the silhouette and the volume of the form it drapes, and the manner
in which it is draped. This invests most traditional saris, with a perfect
compound of not just obvious hallmarks of regional and national identity, but
also makes them reflect an individuality that owes as much to each of their
makers as to their users.[3]

Exploring Design, and the Design Principles of the Sari

How does this happen? To understand
this, we will have to explore and unravel the design-principles of the sari.
Before doing that, we have to first comprehend ‘what is design’. Design, in its
conventional meanings today, is limited to dictionary definitions. The Chambers English Dictionary defines
it as ‘to indicate, to draw, to contrive, to form a plan of’.[4] But, evidently the sari is a designed garment, and equally
evidently, rarely is it made through elaborate drawings. To quote from Rta
Kapur Chisti: ‘The sari
allows us to go back at least a thousand years in design terms with variations
in pattern, weave and structure between its inner and outer end-pieces and its
two borders which provide drape, strength and weight while the body enhances
the form of the sari or dhoti when it is worn.’[5]

Definitions
by themselves, then, will not take us far, especially in the context of India.
As Chaturvedi Badrinath notes in a discussion on the Mahabharata: ‘One
characteristic of Indian thought has been that in the place of definitions of
things, it asks for their attributes or lakshanas.
That is because all definitions are arbitrary, whereas the lakshanas or the attributes, are what show a thing, through which a
thing becomes manifest. Thus, not the ‘definition’ of truth, or of love, but
the attributes of truth and love by which they are known is what is central.’[6] It may be worth our while
then, to look for the lakshanaa of
Indian designs. Are there any characteristics in form and external treatment,
or any intangible features about designs made in India that render them
recognizable as Indian? Can the sari be used as a metaphor for Indian design, to
illustrate these lakshanaa? What is their relevance in the context of our
time, as well as earlier times?

Shared Knowledge and Appreciation of Aesthetics

One attribute of design historically
over a fairly wide area of the globe, and certainly in India, was a shared
knowledge and appreciation of aesthetics
informing the practitioner and the patron alike. The renowned architectural
theorist and teacher, Professor N. J. Habraken, in his writings on Thematic
Design records and analyses design-methods in different parts of the world,
from the North American Indian way of constructing canoes to how the famous
Steinway pianos are created, to the evolution and growth of city-form in areas
ranging from Mexico to the Netherlands. Through these examples, he explains how
design practiced within a shared image
and language allows theactive
creation of cohesive yet varied and
well-suited forms and details.[7]
The presence of a shared image, and the engagement of the craftsperson as well
as local resources in the production and development of artefacts, was a factor
in most societies in the world—not merely in Indian society—before the onset of large-scale
mechanisation. That seems to make the sari a metaphor of universally and
historically valued design attributes.

Something More than Localization and Customization

However, notwithstanding such
similarities in localization and customisation, historical examples of Indian
design across various fields, show some elements that seem to be quite distinct
from other traditions. What are these? Well, one of these distinguishing
elements in the Indian tradition seems to be the preference for attributes that
offer flexibility and versatility, for designs that can be
used for multiple purposes and
occasions. In architecture, this is perhaps most evident in the tradition of
designing multi-use and flexible space, brought to perfection in the 17th
century magnificent palace-fortress built in our very own city of Delhi, for
the Mughal emperor, Shah Jahan. In attire, this translates into a preference
for an unstitched, woven, multi-purpose
garment such as the sari—despite the technology and the knowledge of stitching
from very ancient times, evidenced by the archaeological finds of needles in
many sites of the Harappan civilization.[8]

In most traditional saris, the
decoration is part of the structure
of the garment. That is why it is resilient enough to withstand continued use.
The design effort knits together and goes into spinning the material, composing
the patterns and directly weaving them on the fabric. The overall dimensions of
the sari are more or less fixed, and the variations happen within a certain
range of length and breadth. And once it is done, the same sari can fit
different women of different sizes at different ages and different times of
their lives. Since it is not tailored and sewn to fit one individual at one
point of time in their life, the sari can be bequeathed from generation to
generation. The weavers’ and spinners’ skill can be conserved and presented,
and displayed and worn for generations. This predominance of a flexible,
unstitched garment may also be seen in traditional men’s wear—in the form of
the dhoti, the mundu, and the lungi,where depending on the fabric, the
intricacy of weave and the style of drape, it may be used for pujas or weddings to simply lounging
around at home.

Even most traditional stitched
garments in India, such as my personal favourite, the lehnga, offer this
feature of flexibility and multiple use, though naturally not as much as the
sari or the dhoti. Like them, the lehnga too can suit both casual and formal
occasions; the waist can be drawn in or let out depending on how much you have
eaten in the recent or distant past; it can be lent or handed down successfully
to people of different dimensions. One of the lehngas I treasure the most was
made in the early decades of the 20th century for the marriage
ceremony of my grandmother, which has come to me via my mother. Odhnis,
duppattas and shawls—other unstitched garments which the lehnga is
conventionally teamed with—demonstrate similar attributes of an ability to suit
multiple users as well as multiplicity of use. They can encircle one’s head and
ears, be wound around one’s arms, protect one’s neck and chest—in dry summers,
sudden monsoon squalls, blustery winters.

Individual Creativity and the Freedom to Improvise

The other distinctive element of
Indian design was the strong streak of
individual creativity that eschewed replication even within a strong
structure of form. Consider the stonework of the Taj Mahal or the pavilions and
courtyards of traditional palaces.[9]
To understand what this implies in terms of saris, one has only to look at
them. Even when they bear characteristic motifs that render them recognisable
as being from a certain region or area, there is still considerable variation within
saris from the same region, depending on the material, different guilds,
different craftspeople and so on. Not just that, even saris woven by the same
craftsperson, are never
identical.

It was because there was the freedom
to improvise within a defining yet accommodating structure, that such designs,
which were distinctly individual but were united by an aesthetic sensibility
and skill, could be made. This design approach did not reduce the everyday
functional object to something mundane or banal, but elevated it to something special. And it gave the craftsperson
the opportunity to engage in work, which though strenuous was actively personal
and creative. Thus, designs ranging from saris to cities, were in almost every
case, not just practical but also beautiful. So, not just those of my mother
and grandmother-in law, but the saris of a majority of women from their
generations and before, are stunning pieces of craftsmanship and design.

This context-sensitive ‘freedom to
interpret’ was pervasive in most indigenous folk and classical Indian
traditions—whether music, theatre, architecture, crafted art, philosophy,
literary texts, and even daily ritual.[10]
But, the sari is perhaps the best representative, and also practically the only
living example, of this tradition. At a cousin’s wedding recently, my aunt
brought out some of her old saris to see if any of us would like to wear them.
One of them, a particularly beautiful pink cotton Banarasi, was her wedding
sari. As we handled its now fragile folds, we decided not to risk wearing it, till
we could get someone skilled enough to add on a cotton lining to it. I instead
photographed it in detail, and e-mailed the pictures to her daughters in China
and England, who had been unable to attend the wedding celebrations at short
notice. I had forgotten, till my cousin in China reminded me, that while in
college, I had worn this very sari at her sister’s wedding! My aunt’s sari
linked three weddings in different decades in our extended families, and
reawakened memories across two continents.

It is in this context that the sari can be used as a distinguished example
of the qualities that marked out much of Indian design in the past, which
we can learn from and apply over a wide field.[11]
Values of lasting efficiency, multiple purposes, and customization. Let me
reiterate the lakshanaa of
traditional Indian design that the sari embodies—where resources can be used
optimally but frugally; where an artefact can be simultaneously functional and
decorative; where infinite variety and complexity are possible within an idea
of striking simplicity; where work, despite being a necessary means of survival
can also be part of an individual quest for creative expression; where rigorous
knowledge and appreciation of aesthetics can enable the creation of distinctive
design within a shared language and structure. Does formal Indian design in the
hands of professionally designated designers exhibit these qualities? What does
rooted regional and national identity mean for the creation of a culture of
design?These are questions we need to ask—and answer.

It would be presumptuous to think
that we could do so in the space of the time at our disposal today. But, I
would like to point to some observations as a prelude perhaps to the answers.

First, that continued creation and evolution of pertinent design depend
on continued and evolved patronage. Today, when most of us, like many other people and
governments in the world wish to become like the industrialised countries of
Europe, or North America and mimic standardised, stereotypical images from that
part of the world, our aspiration is for objects generated by ‘Big Industry’.
We cannot then hope to be evolved patrons of distinctive customised design. The
sari is but one example of such distinctive design and apparel, which is now
getting ‘de-recognised’ as ‘proper’ or ‘appropriate’. The Times of India recently carried a report about a 67 year old
Indian visitor being denied entry by a policeman into a Metro Station in Dubai.
Why? Because he was wearing a dhoti! Despite the Roads and Transport Authority there
having no official dress code or policy, and despite the policeman being
explained that the dhoti is modest and traditional Indian attire.[12]
Along with the ethos and recognition of such regional and national markers of
identity, their makers too are dwindling. In India—home to the largest number
and the most skilled craftspeople in the world—small farmers, craftspeople, and
weavers are being pushed out of their livelihoods. So, like many of their
counterparts in different parts of our country, the weavers of Benares and
Bengal are now pulling rickshaws or breaking stones for roads.

For those of us
who do opt to wear the sari, even if only occasionally, when we choose to ‘make-over’
the sari into the hands of large industry and its attendant exploitative practice, and
into materials and methods spawned by large-industry[13] we superficially continue to wear
the sari, but we make a mockery of the principles of decentralised innovation,
and the culture of ‘small is beautiful’ inherent in its basic design-strength. Even
worse, in the manner typical of large-scale commerce and
media, we refuse to recognise attributes of design in traditional crafts, and
instead profess to have an exclusive right to appropriate them. So, the cover
story in the Hindustan Times Brunch
July 2013, themed on ‘Indian Fashion’s Greatest Hits’, and titled ‘The Sexy Sari’, announces that
‘armies of women are getting customized saris’ with Manish Malhotra’s designs,
ignoring the fact that the sari was always
a customized article of wear.

That brings me to my second observation, about the idea of luxury touted
and sold even today, and
which, as described in the magazine of The Park Hotels, ‘still harks back to
bespoke…not just ownership or consumption of an expensive object, but an
enriching, individualizing, personal experience…which stays with the user for
posterity’[14]. This
idea of luxury was accessible to rich and poor alike in India, in the past, especially
in the form and design of the sari. Consider the notes of a British officer
in the Nizam’s court at Hyderabad, in the late 18th century, that he
could not distinguish much difference between the dress of the poor and the
rich, except that the clothes of the rich were perhaps slightly cleaner.[15]
A Persian text from the 1820s on eleven trade-crafts and their practitioners,
from Bareilly conveys the same information. These are some images from a
translated version of the Folio; they show respectively a Paansari, a Crimper
and a Goldsmith. In many instances, the description of their clothes is simply
that they ‘are just like other inhabitants of the country’ or ‘like upper-class
people’.[16]

Today,
however, we have two ends of the spectrum. One, where, we unquestioningly cough
up money to buy audaciously priced, industrial ‘branded’ products, but consider
crafted products ‘too expensive’. This was brought home to me by a master-craftsman
from Tamil Nadu at a crafts fair eleven years ago. He was a weaver of very delicate
and strong reed chattais, which could
be rolled up into tiny cylinders and literally wrung without spoiling their
weave. We were debating whether to buy one at 1100 Rupees, when he asked us “Did
we think so much before buying branded shirts at the same or higher cost,
produced in a factory, and identical with many others?” At the other of this
spectrum is the huge government support to large-scale industries, which makes
products of smaller hand-crafted enterprises rare, and therefore too expensive
for the poor. So, my cook who dislikes wearing nylon saris, which make her
perspire profusely in the kitchen and are a great fire-hazard, can only afford
these mill-made saris of artificial materials. Cotton saris even in her village
in Bengal cost a minimum of three hundred rupees, and are therefore reserved
for special occasions such as Durga Puja.

My third observation is that when we design ephemeral products today, for
a ‘fall or spring season’, we are not breaking new ground, but merely following a different
tradition—that enunciated by western designers in a post-World War world. This
concept of ‘planned and perceived obsolescence’—popularised in the last century
by Clifford Brooks
Stevens[17]—an influential American industrial designer, means that objects are not
designed to last, and simultaneously advertising is harnessed into
"instilling in the buyer the desire to own something a little newer, a
little better, a little sooner than is necessary". And the reason we opt
for this, reversing the qualities
of optimum efficiency of our indigenous design tradition, can be explained by a
statement of the Indian psychologist and sociologist Ashis Nandy to the Iranian
philosopher Ramin Jahanbegloo: ‘…a sizeable section of the Orient itself has
begun to look at its own past through the eyes of the West. Because that, they
think, is the more modern, progressive, scientific, and universal outlook.’[18]
In another interview in
a national newspaper, Chandra Bhan Prasad, the mentor to Milind Kamble,
founder of the Dalit Indian Chamber of Commerce and Industry (DICCI) answered a question about changes in the lives of Dalits and tribals, by
saying: ‘…now Dalits and upper castes and OBCs have common sources of
food—wheat and rice. And jeans and T-shirts have become new weapons of
emancipation...Dressing well, eating well.’[19]

That jeans and T-shirts are seen as
‘new weapons of emancipation’ and instances of ‘dressing well’, is a reflection
that local food and crafts, and even the traditional sari are now symbols of
the ‘un-emancipated’. But emancipation, among other things, is the freedom to
decide what we want to wear or display or use. Though we may not realise it,
this freedom is continually compromised—by corporations, large entities and
business-policies which covertly or overtly shapeour choices, and graft on meanings of progressive to large-scale
mechanization, when it is actually the reverse. As designers and users in
India, we have the alternative to work with a versatile vocabulary of skills
and principles, lakshanaa that can
create ever-new compositions. We can still use uniquely crafted and designed
articles, and at the same time empower small communities, individuals,
craftspeople. So I would like to end, as I began, with the image of a sari. Not
one woven a hundred years ago, but in today’s time. This beautiful Kerala
cotton sari was bought in Delhi at a Sari Shop in Khan Market, and is both less
expensive and more valuable than the industrially-made branded plastic watch I
was given a choice of being gifted. And for those who crave novelty and endless
variety, we still have people who can teach us how to drape the sari in some or
all of its 108 recorded ways—to give us a constantly refreshing individual
identity within a regional and national context. I was fortunate enough to
learn one recently, where the Sambhalpuri sari from Orissa forms a resplendent
and comfortable dancing costume for the oldest surviving classical dance in
India, Odissi.

[1]
Kiran Purandare, ‘Cheuhit’, p.17,
translated from Marathi into Hindi by Aamod Karkahnis, as published in the
Children’s Science Magazine in Hindi, Chakmak,
June 2012; translated into English by Anisha Shekhar Mukherji

[9] Habib Tanvir’s explanation of how Sanskrit
drama as well as the folk and classical traditions that succeeded it, is
illuminating in this respect, p. 23, ‘My Milestones in Theatre, Habib Tanvir in
Conversation’, Charandas Chor,
Seagull Books 2004, Kolkata. Nageen, Habib Tanvir’s daughter, explains her father’s
experience with scripting his plays and directing folk actors “Up to a point
it’s important to leave the actor free. And in Indian art it’s important to let
them improvise.”http://www.thehindu.com/features/metroplus/living-theatre/article4724470.ece

[10]‘Is there an Indian Way of
Thinking’, pp.34-51, The Collected Essays of A. K. Ramanujan, edited by Vinay Dharwadker, OUP, 2012

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About Me

Anisha Shekhar Mukherji grew up and studied in cantonments across India to finally finish her schooling at the Loreto Convent Delhi, and the Delhi Public School R. K. Puram, before graduating as an architect from the School of Planning and Architecture, Delhi. She went on to do a Masters in Architectural Conservation at the De Montfort University, Leicester, U.K. on an Overseas Development Association Scholarship in 1997-98.
Her book, The Red Fort of Shahjahanabad based on extensive archival research (Oxford University Press,2003) is widely recognized as one of the most authoritative pieces of research and analysis of the Red Fort.
Anisha’s book, Jantar Mantar, Maharaja Sawai Jai Singh’s Observatory in Delhi,launched at the Delhi Jantar Mantar on 29 September 2011, explains the historical and functional context of the Jantar Mantar, drawing from her experience since 1999 as the Conservation Consultant for the Jantar Mantar Project.
Anisha works as an independent researcher and designer and teaches as Visiting Faculty at the School of Planning and Architecture, New Delhi.